I braid my hair with fingers that feel clumsy in the cold, catching my reflection in the small, warped mirror bolted to the wall.
I look … fierce. Or maybe haggard. There are dark circles under my eyes, and my skin is pale, wind-chapped from the snowmobile ride yesterday. I look like a tenure-track professor who has been dropped into a Jack London novel and is currently waiting for the credits to roll.
Fake it until you make it, Thaddeus used to say. Or at least until you get the data.
I climb down the ladder. The loft overlooks the main room, and as I descend, the heat of the woodstove rises to meet me.
Nash is standing by the kitchen counter. He's wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, because apparently he's immune to hypothermia, revealing forearms that look like they were carved out of oak and hard work. He's drinking coffee,leaning against the counter with a relaxed grace that irritates me.
He looks like a part of the ecosystem, while I feel like an invasive species.
"Morning," he says, watching me reach the floor. "Sleep well?"
"Fine," I lie. I slept in twenty-minute intervals, listening for wolves and wondering if the woodstove was going to fail and leave me frozen in a pose of academic regret.
"Good. We have a long day." He nods toward the rough-hewn pine table. "Eat."
I look at the table. He has set a place for me. Not just a bowl, but a place. A ceramic bowl steams gently, filled with oatmeal. Beside it is a small jar of brown sugar and the powdered milk I assume he keeps for clients who need it. There's a spoon on a napkin.
The gesture catches me completely off guard. After last night's awkwardness, me lecturing him on the ethics of factory farming while he quietly ate the deer he killed with his own hands, I expected professional distance, or a protein bar thrown in my direction. I expected him to tell me that if I wanted to eat leaves, I could go forage in the snow.
I did not expect a hot breakfast.
"You didn't have to do this," I say, walking over to the table. I feel a sudden, sharp pang of guilt for every judgment I made about him yesterday.
"Part of the service," he says, moving to pour himself more coffee. His back is to me, but I can hear the shrug in his voice. "Can't have my clients collapsing from hypoglycemia on day one. It's bad for the insurance premiums."
I sit down. The oatmeal is thick, studded with dried cranberries and walnuts. It smells of cinnamon and comfort.
I take a bite. The sweetness explodes across my tongue. It's warm, substantial, and uncomplicated. It tastes like something I'm not ready to be grateful for.
I finish the entire bowl in under five minutes. I scrape the bottom with my spoon, fighting the urge to pick up the ceramic and lick it.
When I look up, Nash is watching me over the rim of his mug. He's leaning back against the counter, ankles crossed. There's no judgment in his eyes, but something quick and not quite hidden there makes my spine stiffen.
"Better?" he asks.
"Yes," I admit, pushing the bowl away. "Thank you. Really."
"Don't thank me yet. You haven't seen the itinerary." He sets his mug down with a solid thud. "We need to load the gear. Weather is holding, but the pressure is dropping. I want to be at the tree line by noon."
The next hour is a blur of organized chaos. We ferry equipment from the cabin to the sleds waiting outside. The air is biting, sharp enough to freeze the moisture in my nose instantly, but the sky is a brilliant, hard blue that makes the snow blinding, every surface throwing light.
I run my fingers over each piece of my monitoring equipment as I pack it into the Pelican cases. The collar release transmitter. The satellite receiver. The solar chargers. The empty case I'll bring his old collar home in. Each component represents months of grant writing, begging, and negotiating with university boards who think "fieldwork" means a conference in San Diego.
Nash watches me pack. He doesn't offer to help with the tech. He seems to understand that this is my domain, my magic. But he watches me the way he watches the trail—like nothing gets past him. He checks the straps on the fuel cans. He checks the oil levels in the snowmobiles. He moves with an economy ofmotion that suggests he has done this a thousand times. Into the side pocket of the near sled, without comment, he tucks a flat zippered pouch—compressed washcloths and a sleeve of field wipes. Practical. The kind of thing you only know to pack if you have actually spent months in the backcountry.
"You trust that casing?" he asks, pointing to the transmitter box I'm securing.
"It's rated for forty below," I say defensively. "Military grade."
"It's plastic," he counters. "Plastic gets brittle in the wind chill. Keep it wrapped in the wool blanket inside the case. Vibration will crack it otherwise."
I hesitate. I want to argue. I want to tell him that I have a PhD, and I know how to pack a box. But I look at the cracked handle of his own shovel, wrapped in duct tape, and realize he knows exactly what the cold does to materials.
"Fine," I say, grabbing a spare wool blanket and wrapping the transmitter. "Good tip."
"Just physics," he says, turning to the sled. "Cold makes things fragile. People included."
